The Devastation of Hope
by lirodendron
Summary: Post Reichenbach. John meets an unexpected visitor to Sherlock's grave. One shot.


It had been twenty-one days since Sherlock Holmes had fallen to his death, in front of his best friend and half of London. John Watson had come to the grave every one of those twenty-one days, alone. There was never anyone else there. Mrs. Hudson had joined him once or twice, but that was it. He had expected Molly to come. Or at least Mycroft. But they never did, at least not as far as he knew. It was better that he hadn't seen Mycroft – John feared what he might do if he encountered the older Holmes brother.

After that first day, John never said anything. He didn't stay long, typically, just stood there in silence before the ebony headstone for a few minutes, like he was waiting for something to happen. Thankfully, the grave was in an out-of-the way spot in the cemetery, so he didn't have to contend with other grief-stricken people visiting their loved ones. They would have made him self-conscious.

The twenty-first day was clear and crisp, and unseasonably cold. It was intolerably bright and sunny, especially for such a chilly summer's day. John hadn't brought a jacket and the wind bit at him, but he didn't shiver. He was lost in his thoughts and it took a few him moments to notice a female figure standing in the trees just beyond the grave.

Her hair was short and blonde, her clothes a bit dowdy and out of style, but he recognized her at once. The Woman.

"Your loyalty is, as always, very touching," she said, walking towards him with the grace of a panther.

"You're dead!" he exclaimed.

"Only officially," she shrugged. "In fact, I'm officially dead twice, so I suppose they cancel each other out."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, coldly.

"Same as you, I'd imagine. I heard the news. I couldn't believe it, so I had to come and see for myself. It's quite dangerous for me to be here, as you may have guessed. My circumstances have been…much reduced…but I still have some resources, it just took a little time to get myself here safely."

She looked different, had changed her style completely and was attempting to seem more casual, commoner, less put together. It didn't suit her. But some things were the same. Her expertly applied makeup. Her stilettos. Her walk.

"Well, you've seen," John said shortly. "Now do you believe it?"

"No. Do you?"

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because I was there!" he exclaimed angrily. "You want me to relive it for you, so you can convince yourself? Okay. I saw him jump and fall eight stories to the pavement. I heard his body hit the ground. I got his blood all over me, I felt for a pulse that wasn't there, and I saw his lifeless face staring up at me with nothing behind his eyes. I'm the one who identified the body for the police, and I'm the one who buried him. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you content now?"

"No."

He was breathing quickly, in a rage. How dare this woman come here, now, and try to talk about Sherlock as if she knew him! She had been gone for months. Dead, he had thought. Everyone had thought. He didn't want to deal with her ghost any more than he wanted to deal with Sherlock's.

Ms. Adler was silent for several moments. Finally she said, "You saw me lying dead and bloody on a slab once too. And a British spy saw a member of the Taliban chop off my head. Yet here I am."

"And how _did_ you get here, exactly?" John demanded. "Decapitation is usually fatal, in my experience.

She gave a private little smile.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "He did it, didn't he? He went halfway around the world and rescued you! God damn it, that bastard."

"So thrilling to hear of your enthusiasm for my safety, Dr. Watson."

He ignored her comment. "Well, you've seen all there is to see, and if that's not enough to convince you then nothing will. Why don't you just leave?"

"Why don't you?"

John said nothing and resumed his quiet vigil.

"You don't like having me here, do you Dr. Watson?"

"Well, you are a perceptive one, aren't you?"

"Why not? Are you jealous, still? After all this time."

"I was never jealous."

"Maybe you should have been." She turned to him. "Go on, ask me. I know you've been dying to know. Ask."

"Alright. Did you love him?"

She laughed. "Did you?"

He glared at her stonily and she sighed at his refusal to play. "Very well. Of course I loved him. How could anyone not love such a man? It's impossible, completely impossible."

"I don't know about that, there are a lot of people who seemed to have no trouble at all with it," John replied grimly.

She waved off his comment. "But they didn't know him. Not really. Think of the people who actually _knew_ him for what he really was, few though they might be. Can you think of a single one who, on some level, wasn't completely in love with him?"

John didn't answer. "You're using the past tense," he commented after a moment.

"Well, I suppose we must play along, if this is how things are to be," she said. "But it still doesn't mean I believe it. And you had another question for me, I think."

"Did I?"

"Oh yes. You've been dying to know… did _he_ love _me_? That's the one that has really been eating you up inside."

John closed his eyes. He remembered the months after Ms. Adler's first "death". Months in which Sherlock had barely eaten, barely spoken – done nothing but play the violin constantly and work. Months in which he had been lost to John, even when they were in the same room. "I'm not in the mood for games, Ms. Adler."

"Oh, it's not a game. It's very serious. And I'll answer, even though you refuse to ask it." She put her perfectly lined lips close to his ear and whispered, "Yes."

John's head snapped around towards her. "Is this fun for you? Is this how you get your kicks? Alright, you've come here, you've said your little speech, I don't care. Time for you to go."

She smiled a droll smile. "I'm not being cruel, Dr. Watson, I promise. And I know you do care, or you wouldn't be so angry with me. But I'm not quite done yet. I know people, and I know men in particular. And he did love me, in his way, otherwise he would not have gone to such great lengths to save me and even if he had, he certainly wouldn't have kept it hidden from you if I meant nothing to him. But it doesn't matter, because he didn't want to be _with _me, not for a night and not for a year."

She dropped her voice, and John might have believed there was actual sadness in it, had she been someone else. "Think back to the past 18 months, Dr. Watson. Who did he come home to every night? Who was constantly at his side? Who did he never leave behind? Who did he share his entire life with, at least as much as he was capable of it? The truth is, Doctor, he may have loved me, but he _belonged_ to you."

John looked at her in amazement, too dumbfounded to speak.

"And that," she continued, "is why I refuse to believe what I see before me. He still belongs to you. And I don't think he was ready to give that up."

John swallowed a lump in his throat. "Well," he managed stiffly, "You may have the luxury to believe what you like, but as for me, I'm just stuck here with the reality of it."

"And which of us is better off, then? If he does come back, Dr. Watson, it won't be for me."

She left him without another word, slipping away with an almost inhuman quietness. John returned his gaze to the headstone, trying to forget everything she had said. It was too much, too painful. He could live with grief, but not with hope.

It had been twenty-one days.


End file.
